


Beauty Spots

by hwshipper



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-13
Updated: 2008-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-07 12:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hwshipper/pseuds/hwshipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House and Wilson are estranged. Events unfold.</p><p><strong>Excerpt:</strong> <em>At the memory of the patient, House's eyelids sprang open, to see possibly the most boring dashboard in history a couple of feet in front of him.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Beauty Spots

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta: **[](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/profile)[**triedunture**](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/) brilliant as ever**  
> Spoilers:** For 5.04 _Birthmarks_.  
> **A/N:** Follows [ Two Months](http://hwshipper.livejournal.com/15363.html) and [ Two Months and Counting](http://hwshipper.livejournal.com/15659.html), but also stands on its own.
> 
> Clarification note: I received a number of questions about the date I posted this fic. I would like to clarify that it was based on spoilers, as I warned for at the time. All the ideas in this fic which also appear in the episode are those of the writers in House, and I claim no credit at all: my intention was merely to elaborate and build upon canon, as is the nature of fanfic. I never intended to dupe or mislead anyone about authorship, nor am I psychic. If I spoiled anything for you, I can only now apologise.

Wilson knocked on the door, and when there was no answer, let himself in anyway. He found House sitting on his couch, feet up. So far, so normal.

But the TV was off and the stereo silent. There was no book or journal at House's elbow, no laptop resting on his thighs. His cane lay flat on the floor next to him. The curtains were open and the only light in the room was spilling in from the street lamp outside; Wilson resisted the temptation to walk across the room and close the drapes.

Instead he looked at House sitting silently in the dark, doing nothing. Except smoke, apparently: an ashtray with several burnt out cigarette ends sat squarely on the coffee table.

Wilson didn't close the door behind him; he didn't want to stay any longer than necessary.

"Your mom called me," Wilson said awkwardly.

A spasm briefly crossed House's otherwise impassive face. "I told her not to."

Wilson sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm not." House shifted a little on the couch. He reached out an arm and grabbed the half-empty cigarette packet on the coffee table. He shook one out, then reached into a pocket for a lighter.

Wilson didn't say anything, was sure he didn't move a muscle in his face, but he didn't need to: House stared at him and said, "Funny, I used to have this best friend, an oncologist, who warned me about smoking..."

He clicked the lighter with defiance, and added, "But he doesn't seem to be around any more. Doesn't seem to think we were ever friends in the first place."

Wilson wanted to rip off the invisible shroud of dazed numbness that swathed House like a thick rubber blanket, and hit him. Just to snap him out of it.

Instead he said with restraint, "The funeral--"

House cut him off like a whiplash. "I'm not going."

Wilson put his hands on his hips, he couldn't help it. "Your mother, House--"

"I am _not--fucking--going_." House bit the words out. "I told her that. I didn't go and see him the whole last year when he was ill, and I'm sure as hell not going now he's dead."

Wilson shook his head in a dazed way. "House... this is not for your father. It's for your _mother!_ It's not like he'd know if you came to his funeral or not, right? But your Mom--"

"Not going! " House sang out loudly. He then took a deep drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke ostentatiously in Wilson's direction. "How many more times? And I don't know why you're so surprised, anyway."

Wilson clenched his fists and unclenched them again. "Actually, I'm not."

House raised an eyebrow and waited.

"You really are as big an ass as I thought." Wilson shrugged, and raised a palm. "I just--hoped."

And he turned and marched out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

  
Everything was dark, but getting lighter. Everything was quiet, but getting louder--like turning the volume up slowly on a stereo.

Fully fledged noises swam into House's consciousness. Tires. Car horns. As his sense of touch returned too, he realized dimly that he was sitting down, tilted slightly backwards... padded fabric, it felt like a car seat. And a strap across his body was holding him in place--a seat belt.

But he hadn't been in a car! He'd been at the hospital--he had a patient...

At the memory of the patient, House's eyelids sprang open, to see possibly the most boring dashboard in history a couple of feet in front of him. Wilson's Volvo. Wilson's car! How the hell--

The power of movement returned to his giddy head, and he shifted to look sideways. Wilson was there, mouth in a small tight line, hands moving steadily on the wheel. A long freeway unraveled in front of them.

He'd last seen Wilson several days ago, when Wilson had stormed out of his apartment...

Realization dawned loud and clear. It was the day of the funeral, and that was where they were headed.

"You drugged me," House said, his voice slow but clogged with grudging admiration. "How? You resigned, you don't even work at the hospital anymore."

Wilson didn't reply.

"I was there. I had a patient--" House stopped as knowledge continued to seep back. "Cuddy! You were in league with her."

Wilson still didn't say anything. House shifted a little in his seat, felt the familiar tug of pain, and swiftly found a void in his pocket where his pill bottle should have been. Also, his cane was nowhere to be seen.

"I've been kidnapped," House said, and his tone was one of wonderment. "You cunning bastards." He then switched to a glare. "Just because you've got me in this car, you don't think you've won, do you? There's a long drive ahead yet, and if you think I'm going quietly--"

Wilson spoke for the first time: his voice sounded calm. "We'll see."

House decided not to reply; he needed to concentrate on recovering his strength for a while.

His eye fell on the Volvo key chain dangling from the ignition. House started to muse on how best to grab the keys when they arrived at the inevitable rest stop.

* * *

Wilson had known it wouldn't be easy, and he'd prepared himself and his car accordingly for the full force of House's resistance.

Confiscating the cane, doling out the Vicodin in doses as small as possible--these things helped keep House under control, but Wilson wondered as they passed the halfway point if it would have been easier to keep House drugged the entire drive. He told himself that Blythe would want her son to arrive in a state of consciousness, not comatose, or bound and gagged in the trunk. Tempting as the latter idea was.

Between bouts of psychological warfare, House had made several practical attempts to escape. At one point at a rest stop, he threw the car keys down a storm drain.

"They weren't just my car keys, House," Wilson said, trying not to lose his temper (or he was doomed, he knew). "My house keys were on that chain too. All my keys, actually--"

"You don't have any other keys," House said acidly. "At least, I hope you turned all your work keys over to Cuddy when you resigned, or that's theft of hospital property. Think of the time and money lost replacing them--the hospital could have bought, what, a whole box of bandages with the money saved--"

Wilson had successfully rescued the keys (he was well prepared for such eventualities), but his patience was definitely starting to wear thin.

Wilson had also confiscated House's cell phone, which was unfortunate as House did actually have a patient, and demanded consultations with his team back at the hospital.

"My patient dies, you'll have her blood on your hands," House announced in a dire tone. "Haven't you had enough patients of your own dying on you, without taking responsibility for one of mine?"

Wilson allowed House limited use of the cell phone. At one point, having temporarily mislaid the handset, Wilson dialed House's cell from his own so it would ring and he could find it; Wilson then did his best not to respond to the discovery that House's ringtone for him was _Dancing Queen_.

"I hear this and think of you," House explained sweetly.

Wilson gritted his teeth and couldn't help but compare House's outward lack of grief to the chilling, heart-clenching pain he was still experiencing himself. Wilson knew House far too well to take it as read that House was as unmoved as he claimed; but still, it was annoying.

He told himself that engaging House in conversation or argument was just going to end in fights and fury, and tried not to react to House's jibes.

* * *

  
House was a little frustrated at Wilson's lack of response to his jibes. They were making alarmingly good progress towards the funeral.

He racked his brains for something that would really rile Wilson. They'd been on road trips before. House knew that Wilson would be remembering one particular one, years ago; House leading them on a long, apparently motiveless drive along the Jersey coast; the adventures they'd had along the way--

"Seen much of Chris recently?" House said conversationally.

Wilson cast him a suspicious glance, then answered, "Not a lot. I visited him down at the beach last weekend." He paused, and added, "Met his new boyfriend. Matt, seems like a nice guy."

House's eyes narrowed so far they became glowing blue slits. "That is just so insincere."

"What?" Wilson was cross. "He does seem like a nice guy! He is a nice guy!"

"Your voice says so but your history says no." House waved a hand. "You'll never actually believe any boyfriend of Chris's can be a nice guy. Because deep down you can't believe Chris doesn't still want to jump your bones like he did all those years ago."

At last, a reaction. House watched with pleasure as Wilson's face practically turned purple with suppressed fury.

But he still didn't say anything; just drove a little faster. A bit too fast, possibly, especially through a podunk shit town like the one they were currently driving through.

"That was a stop sign," House observed.

"Where?"

"Exactly," said House, as a patrol car slid off the curb behind them and started up its lights and sirens.

"Oh, crap," Wilson sighed.

"Car chase, cheese it!" House said excitedly, but Wilson pulled over like the good citizen he was. House groaned. "Spoilsport. We could have interrupted regular TV scheduling for sure."

Wilson rolled down the window as the sheriff approached. "Um, sorry about that, officer, I didn't see the sign."

"License and registration," intoned the voice of officialdom.

Wilson produced the documents. The sheriff handed them to his deputy, who walked back to their car. Wilson drummed his fingers on the wheel.

House leaned over slightly, and mouthed to the sheriff, _"Help! I'm being kidnapped."_

The sheriff stared at House and frowned. House repeated, _"Help! I am being held against my will!"_

"What the hell is going on?" the sheriff asked bluntly.

House sighed at the lack of co-operation. "Don't you watch any TV in this one horse town? I'm being kidnapped! Arrest him!" He pointed at Wilson. "I'm a respectable doctor and I was drugged and taken away against my will, in the middle of a working day, with a dying patient suffering--"

"House!" Wilson said in exasperation. "Shut up!" He looked apologetically at the sheriff. "He just doesn't want to go to his father's funeral. His Mom asked me to--"

"Sheriff!" called the deputy. The sheriff shook his head and walked back towards his car.

Wilson glared at House. "Stop fucking around or you'll get us into serious trouble."

The sheriff reappeared at the window. "Dr. Wilson? James Wilson?"

"Yes?"

"There's a warrant outstanding for your arrest in Louisiana. I'm going to have to ask you to come with me."

Wilson gaped. House gaped too, then recovered enough to say, "Well, it's a good thing I wasn't fucking around, or we might have got into serious trouble."

* * *

  
An hour later, a phone call confirmed that the Louisiana authorities didn't actually want James Wilson hauled back to their state to face a minor twenty-year-old charge of property damage and vandalism, caused at a hotel during a medical conference in New Orleans. The charges had stayed open because Wilson had somehow never got round to contacting the lawyer House had lined up for him.

House and Wilson were sent on their way again, to Wilson's relief and House's obvious chagrin.

"Clearly maintaining the forces of law and order mean nothing in this shithole," House grumbled. "Letting a dangerous criminal like you free to--"

"I threw a bottle in a bar and broke a mirror. That's all," Wilson was concentrating on driving, making up the lost time. He really couldn't believe this had come up again after all these years. "And I was provoked."

"Billy Joel overload." House snorted. "Can't believe the sheriff believed that."

"What? It was true! You were there."

"Yeah, and it was all about that jukebox guy, and had nothing to do with the fact that your first wife had just served you with divorce papers."

Wilson froze. "What did you say?"

House hesitated, then said, "Nothing."

"Bullshit. How did you know that?" Wilson turned his head and fixed House with a steely glare.

House shrugged and looked casual. "You had the papers with you."

"Yes, I did have the divorce papers with me. But you didn't know that... I never knew you knew that," Wilson corrected himself. He stared at House. "I always thought you bailed me out because you were bored and--" _wanted to fuck a jailbird_. Wilson dropped his voice. "Horny."

House fidgeted with his fingers. "I was. Bored, mainly."

"But you also knew why I was there. And why I was so upset in that bar. You knew my marriage was on the rocks--"

"No superpowers needed to guess that, I can assure you."

Wilson's mind had run briskly on, and now he understood. And he could hardly believe it. "It's been nearly twenty years! All this time, all this history, and I _never knew _you saw those papers! Why didn't you tell me?"

House looked cagey. "And why would I have done that?"

_Because then I'd have known you give a crap!_ "You weren't just bored! You were being... nice." Wilson took a deep breath.

"Yes, that sounds like me." House peered out of the window. "I never thought I'd say this, but thank Christ, it looks like we're nearly there."

* * *

  
Wilson parked carefully in a secluded spot close to the funeral home. Years of Housian experience had taught him that just because he'd got House there, that did not mean things would go smoothly from here on. He reversed in so they would be able to leave quickly, if necessary.

"Think we'll need a fast getaway?" House asked, clambering out of the car. "Afraid cousin Daisy might jump you over the canapés?"

This was a long-standing family joke, and Wilson ignored it. House shut the car door and leaned on it, waiting for Wilson to produce the cane. Wilson found it in the trunk and came around to hand it to House.

House made a last ditch protest.

"If I'd known I was going to be drugged this morning and hauled off to a funeral, I might have worn something else." He took the cane with one hand and gestured up and down himself with the other. He was wearing a blue shirt and blue jeans, his normal hospital workwear. "Didn't you pack me a suit? I'm disappointed in you."

"Like you'd have worn a suit. But I brought this for you." Wilson dug in his inside jacket pocket, and pulled out an elegant black striped silk tie, neatly folded.

House stared at it, and said meanly, "I guess you've got lots of ties like this in your wardrobe for the funerals of all those dying patients of yours."

Wilson struck back. "You're right. I didn't wear that one to the last funeral I went to." He dug in his other pocket and found a second elegant black striped silk tie. "I wore this one."

The knowledge of the last funeral Wilson had been to hung in the air like a cloud.

As House didn't seem inclined to take the tie, Wilson looped it around House's neck, then put on his own. House watched, twisting the tie that Wilson had given him through his hands, winding the silk around his fingers, wrapping it loosely around his wrists.

Wilson finished with his own tie, looked at House, and grimaced. He couldn't bear to see House scrunching up the silk. Wilson reached forward and grasped the two ends. "Here--"

He pulled slightly, and House leaned towards him. Next thing House grabbed the knot of Wilson's tie, pulling back, bringing their faces close together. Wilson felt House's breath on his cheek, could almost feel the prickle of House's stubble just a couple of inches away.

He hesitated, letting his guard down for just a few seconds, resting his forehead against House's. They stood with their noses touching, breathing gently into each other's mouths. Then Wilson closed his eyes and angled his head slightly, and their lips came together. The kiss was soft but intense; House's tongue flicking lightly into Wilson's mouth. It felt as good, as right and as natural as it always had done.

Wilson remembered blonde hair and a note under a pillow; the touch of cold pale skin, and the whir of the life support machine powering down. He felt a sob rising up in his throat, and pulled away.

House leaned slowly back against the car, his eyes glowing blue with diagnostic realization.

"You didn't dump me because you hated me," House stated.

Wilson stared.

"Amber's death came out of the blue," House continued slowly. "You weren't prepared. You can prepare for all your goddamn cancer patients dying on you, but you were never prepared for that."

"Leave Amber out of this."

"You dumped me because you couldn't stand the possibility of the only _other _person you care about dying on you," House concluded. "Easier just not to have me around in the first place. You can't lose what you don't have, right?"

_"Fuck--off!" _Wilson choked, more angry than he could possibly express. He turned on his heel and stormed towards the funeral home, not caring in the least if House followed him or not.

He heard the click of the cane, though, and knew House was following him.

* * *

  
Half an hour later, House again found himself limping along behind an angry Wilson, but this time leaving the funeral.

Wilson came storming out of the funeral parlor and into the nearest side room with an open door. The room was set out for a wake, with food and drink spread around tables. House eyed a pile of sandwiches which looked really quite tempting; it had been a while since he last ate.

Wilson stopped and turned towards House, his face contorted with fury.

"You are even more of an asshole than I thought! And that's saying something!" Wilson shook a finger in House's face. "How could even _you_ screw up your father's funeral like that, during the eulogy, for fuck's sake!"

"I just wanted to get a sample of his DNA!" House protested, wide-eyed. He picked up a sandwich and bit into it; egg mayo, nice. "Last chance before he went underground." He tried for humor. "You know how hard it is to get an exhumation order? And even Kutner might balk if I asked him to dig up my so-called dad--"

But Wilson was not to be pacified.

"You can't deal with the death of your father by pretending that he was never your father in the first place!" Wilson shouted.

"And you can't deal with the death of your girlfriend by pretending that the _other _person you love was never your friend in the first place!" House shouted back.

Wilson wheeled around, and for a second House tensed, thinking Wilson was going to hit him. But instead Wilson seized a bottle on a nearby table, and hurled it through the air. It struck a tall window.

And for the second time in twenty years, House watched in fascination as a bottle Wilson had thrown seemed to freeze for a second in midair, then came crashing to the floor with broken glass splintering all around. House and Wilson stared at the damage for a few seconds.

"Well," House said presently, delighted, "we can't blame Billy Joel for this one."

Then at the sound of footsteps approaching, they headed out as fast as House's cane could carry them.

* * *

  
A couple of hours later, they stopped for gas. House got out to stretch his leg.

Wilson said offhandedly as he put the nozzle back on the pump, "You were right about Matt."

House leaned on the roof of the car and looked quizzically at Wilson.

"Major jerk-off. Not nearly good enough for Chris." Wilson headed off to the pump attendant's booth, taking out his wallet.

House grinned to himself and propped himself up against the car, breathing the night air. It was late, and dark. The air was cool but pleasant on his face. He had gotten his Vicodin bottle back, and felt fully charged again.

He watched Wilson pay and head back to the car. Wilson's cell rang when he was a few feet away. House listened as Wilson walked towards him talking on the phone, House's focus sharpening as he realized Cuddy was on the other end of the line.

"...on our way home. We'll tell you all about it when we're back." Wilson arrived next to House.

There was a pause, Wilson listening to Cuddy, but then Wilson's eyes darted sideways, and locked on House. Wilson said into the receiver, "No, of course he didn't behave himself."

House couldn't resist; he grabbed the phone, and said, "Although it was Wilson who got arrested on the way there, and then trashed the place after."

Wilson snatched the phone back. "Uh, like I said, we'll tell you more when we get back. Fine. Okay. Oh, and Cuddy?... there was something I wanted to say."

House raised an eyebrow, not at all sure what was coming next.

"I'm going to take you up on your offer to let me come back to work at the hospital," Wilson continued. "If that's still all right?"

House stared at Wilson with incredulous delight.

Wilson listened, and laughed. "Thank you. That's great. In which case, see you Monday. Bye." He rang off.

"Wilson," House said fervently, and stopped, temporarily speechless.

Wilson smiled at him, a tired and cautious but genuine smile, and for the first time House felt _relief _seep into his gut. It was going to be all right. Not all at once, there were still issues, they had some ground to make up, some stuff that they'd have to work out. But Wilson would be in the office next door again. The world could slide back onto its axis.

"Those divorce papers," Wilson said, closing his cell phone. "I can't believe I never knew. Not in twenty years of you fucking around with my life, my career, my marriages... Twenty years of stealing my food, borrowing my money, bumming drinks, demanding rides--"

"Twenty years of bailing _you _out," House retorted. "Of being there when you screwed up your own life, your own marriages, having sex with grossly inappropriate women--like dying patients and my boss' teenage daughter--"

Wilson shook this off like a duck shaking water off its back. "You did something _nice_."

"I take the fifth," House said firmly.

Wilson smiled, and didn't push it. "It's late, we're not going to make it all the way back to Princeton tonight." He nodded towards a nearby flashing neon sign. "Motel?"

House nodded. Wilson stepped towards House, and House wrapped both arms around Wilson and held him tight.

END

**Author's Note:**

> The story of Wilson's arrest in New Orleans all those years ago and the divorce papers is told in [Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 8](http://hwshipper.livejournal.com/17289.html)


End file.
